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I get down to work on my assignment from HR.

My alternate gait makes them fidget as I walk down the street. Promptly my uninhibited breasts incite interest. Brooches bounce too, a breast each, occasionally hitting the nipple as if a finger prods my breasts pointing them out indelicately, flicking at my nipples in the high street... mmm. Men regard me and my breasts, except the unfortunate ones who are looking in an incorrect direction or exit a shop just after I parade past the entrance, they appear inquisitive to the stares of other men who are enjoying the spectacle.

All these men's eyes aimed at me, all together. I am their focus. Their lewd attention has me moist. I can feel my labia slithering together as I walk. I wish I could show this as well but I feel it and try to express it through my breasts' dance. I do not look at anyone directly; I walk as if the street is deserted. I ignore any comments, whistling, I do not hear them. I disregard female jealousy but appreciate some warm regard from one or two. The leering men I certainly perceive but not acknowledge. I sense every precious view, focusing on reflections in shop windows and with my adept peripheral vision I capture the appreciation of masculine observation to amass their regard of my oblivious display.

My nipples protrude into the dress' light cloth and gather caresses that rigidify. This alters the impression of my breasts within the cloth as the point of nipples rather than the weight of full breast now contact the cloth. I have done this before but the thrill does not diminish. I am not sure if I do or imagine but I experience my fingertips tweak a nipple apiece. The cotton gently abrades my sensitised buds, synchronously arousing with each noticed bounce. Lust urges me to here and now, open my dress and masturbate to orgasm, now! to restrain my fervour... but am I not just an innocent young lady who has an ungainly walk, much too hot for any underwear that I innocently forgo... I absorb the fervour, consequently my libido glows crimson. So too my chest, which is not seemly for an innocent such as I, unless it be mistaken for sunburn, I do hope so. I turn a corner into another street and regain a calm amble, to ease all else. I stroll passively a while for my nipples to moderate, by which time I am again at the door of the department store.

My vulva, as I would call it in polite conversation, is now most decidedly my creamy, mucky, cunt. My sap's abundance is relative to stimulation, I am familiar with the generous, pungent glut, pleasantly so. Even tho I am outside in the open I can discern the aroma that accompanies all my masturbatory activity and it ought to persist upon my fingers, they perform there repeatedly. It is a pleasing aroma; it smells of me and passion, pleasure and indulgence. My lewd perfume. How can innocence smell thus, would not a man be confused. So again I must contradict, a virtuous air with a carnal bouquet.

Calmness somewhat restored, I enter the store, climb the stairs to his floor and am very pleased to see it so quiet. He is there. In an instant I see he wears the same or identical trousers. Even from here I can confirm his cock's placement, positioned considerately I'm sure, perhaps with the desire of entertaining a woman such as I.

As I am the only potential customer, he is aware of my presence but I give him absolutely no sign of attention in my well-practiced routine of wasting time browsing blandly. But I am planning, I assess carefully.

Voyeur, a name best reserved for the astute observer, he can become an accomplice, he discerns tacitly and an understanding develops. These perceptive men are wonderful but somewhat rare. I treasure them. I may go further in their company.

I adjust my clothing. A sly pull here a practiced tug there the removal of the left brooch and I am ready. I approach him, he is behind a counter, studying a catalogue and writing something.

"Excuse me, do you have any hairdryers?"

Engrossed with his ord

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